Deborah Levy - Billy and Girl

‘Say it over and over.’

‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get evil as a blonde can get evil as a blonde evil evil can get.’

He stops. Some kind of knowledge pulling through the manhole. ‘I’m not your dad, Louise. You know I’m not. Pull yourself together now. C’mon now, there’s a good girl.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You can. It’s happening. I can see it’s beginning. I’m not him, okay? I don’t think you’re evil.’

Louise sobbing into her see-thru cleavage. ‘Where’s their Mom?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘You got to tell me for them .’

He grabs his shirt and starts to struggle into it, taking his time, doing up the buttons at his own pace. Wiping the beer off his lips with the back of his hand. Forget the gas fire and brown hundred per cent wool carpet. It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s what’s inside that matters. He is a rugged individualist, with a past. The stranger who swings open the saloon doors and the guys at the bar know he’s seen a bit. Been through it. Don’t ask any questions. A loner, living in the suburbs with coyotes and his horse. Except this is the moment Mr England has been dreaming about these past few years. He’s played it over and over in his head. Practised his TV interview to the nation till he knows exactly what he’s going to say. If he imagines the cameras are rolling he can get across his point of view. Mr England makes an attempt to get a media-friendly tone into his voice. Preparing himself to touch the hearts of the five-o’clock viewing population. Puts a comb through his hair. Rubs his hands over his face. Does a few excercises to relax his jaw. Makes sure he’s sitting straight and not like some slob from Bumford. Checks out where the cameras would be if they were actually there. Positions them in his head so he never looks straight at them. Takes a deep breath. Caressing Louise with his eyes, and, by implication, the viewing public. Best to use everything you got in this life.

‘I don’t know why I’m supposed to be the big bad wolf in all of this. Up to a point I’ll take my share. I’ll take fifty per cent but not a hundred. Like Elvis said, I wasn’t made to be married. I don’t like it. Husband walking around farting. Wife walking around scratching. Kids going around hollering. Yes, I hit my lad because he ran away with my wife. In a manner of speaking, you understand. I’m not a basket case. I was out of order. But he provoked me.’ Dad pauses. Shaking his handsome head at the pathos and beauty of being a dysfunctional. ‘I loved my wife. She used to have a beehive and that. After the birth of the lad, I lost her. She had eyes only for him. I went on an eating binge. Stuffing myself with mashed potato and gravy, nine Suffolk porkers in one sitting followed by a packet of biscuits.’

Louise doesn’t know how to conduct this interview. What tone of voice or questions to ask. She doesn’t even know about bringing in the studio McPsychologist to tell the nation how Mr England did not have a reliable role model for fatherhood and masculinity. Boring. Well, if it’s so damn fucking boring, why are they all watching?

Information to make the viewers gawp, coming up.

‘My girl, my daughter, twelve years old, I loved her above myself, would have done anything for her, my little princess even though she was a secret smoker, set fire to me after I went a bit far with the lad. I went to have a lie-down. My girl poured paraffin over my head, set fire to me with my very own Elvis lighter, the one with “Don’t Be Cruel” printed on it. A collector’s item. No one helped me. Not the lad, not the wife, not the daughter, not the neighbours. The bed sheets on fire. By the time the ambulance finally pulled up with a puncture and three so called medics — poets in white coats who’d just done a first-aid course — I was nearly gone. They carried me on a stretcher down the stairs trying to work out what rhymes with dead.’

The nation holds its breath. That’s quite something, isn’t it?

Mr England thinks he’s doing well. When the time comes for the real cameras he’ll be well rehearsed. Word-perfect.

‘My wife took the blame, didn’t she? Said she was provoked. Got a doctor’s report on the boy’s bruises. They let her off, but she wasn’t allowed to stay with her kids. Had to live separate. Her father’s looking after them.’

Mr England looks directly into the lightbulb so tears will roll down his cheeks.

‘Yes, I have had a few girlfriends since. Thing is, I never like to go to sleep with them in the house. It’s a panic thing. Case they do something to me while I’m sleeping.’ Mr England shifts his focus. Imagines where the McPsychologist will be sitting. Should he give him a sly wink? Probably a few housewives out there who want to marry him. Credits coming up. Chat-show theme tune coming up.

‘Look, fuck off, will you? I haven’t a clue where their mother is. Piss off out of my house now. Any more trouble from my family sending people over here, I’ll hire a security guard. Going to put a sign on my door: ARMED RESPONSE.’

‘Yeah?’

Louise believes him. He hasn’t a clue. Got no curiosity. Mr England has shut himself in his castle for ever. Patiently tying the bin liners with little strips of green plastic wire. Doing his weekly shop for one. Pint of milk and little tin of butter beans. Watching the chat shows. Singing old Elvis numbers. She’s got no information for the girl and Billy. Billy’s voice coming into her head. Telling her about the man who gave a name to his pain. Called it dog. Kicked and screamed at it. She can’t find a name for her pain. ‘They’ hurt her and she ran away. Princess Louise of FreezerWorld. Cooling down — calmed by the murmuring. Fridges humming Louise lullabies to her broken heart, all day long. Hush little baby don’t say a word. Hush little baby. Hush. Atgam, Cleocin, Didrex, Povera Quinidine, glass vials, white gloves, Lidocaine, Darvocet, Phenurone, diagnostic manuals, the free market, free love or the essential English dictionary, they’re not going to do it. Mrs O’Reilly might just do it. Taking her in. Folding her into her Mom arms. Cleaning up the snot and tears. Yeah, the Girl and Billy voice channelling through her as one voice, they’re in this together. What did Girl say? ‘Soon all the kids in England will be pushing up daisies.’

Someone’s knocking at the door. Ringing the bell.

Mr England looks worried now. Punching his fist into his own thigh.

‘Only Danny.’ Louise lets him in, princess eyes squeezed into pain slits. Biting her nails.

‘You all right, Lou?’ Danny, who’s taken the day off work on her behalf and everything.

‘I’m all right.’

Mr England just about manages to stand up and stagger to the corridor. Complete fucking strangers coming to his house. It’s got to stop. Why’s the bloke staring at him like that? Mr England slugging another premium lager.

Danny checking him out. Sneaking side glances at Louise. He’s used to getting into situations with her. She’s a wild girl. Knows he mustn’t ask too many questions. Sometimes you can’t, got to keep ventilation between knowing and not knowing when you love someone. Ask when you have to, otherwise leave it. Danny’s never believed he has to know everything. I mean, he’s not some fucking private dick on the Louise File, is he? Louise. Danny loves the smell of her hair. Holding her tight in her bad times. A man in love. Walking proud, heart busting with Louise. Teenage runaway. Those orange ankle boots the other girl gave her. He was just pretending when he said he liked them but it all went wrong because she believed him and he didn’t want to be cruel. There are limits to love. It’s not good for a bloke to have a girlfriend who looks like Marc Bolan.